


Keep Calm and Carry On

by rubyofkukundu



Series: Like a Virgin [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexuality, Awkward Sexual Situations, Friendship/Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither John nor Sherlock are sexually attracted to each other. But they decide to give sex a go anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Calm and Carry On

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/3902198.html>

"John," Sherlock strides into the flat, taking off his coat and tossing it onto the sofa. "Come to my bedroom. We need to have sex."  
  
"What?" John jumps in the armchair where he'd nearly been dozing by the fire. "What do you..."  
  
"You heard me, John." Sherlock removes his jacket and dumps that onto the sofa too, then starts unbuttoning his cuffs as he crosses the room. "If I remember correctly - and I _always_ remember correctly - you said you'd be willing to have sex with me if I ever wanted to." He glances down at John. "And now I want to."  
  
John takes a breath, wondering if he's actually awake. "Ok." He clears his throat. "Didn't think you'd ever decide to take me up that to be honest."  
  
Sherlock scoffs as he paces through into the kitchen. "I always thought you were a man of your word, John," he calls over his shoulder. "Maybe I was wrong."  
  
"No." John hauls himself out of his armchair. "No." The hairs on his arms are standing on end. "Don't lose faith in me that quickly, Sherlock. I'm, ah. I'm willing to go through with this if you are."  
  
"Well, come on then," comes Sherlock's impatient shout from his bedroom.  
  
"Right," says John. His heart has decided that this would be a good time to start hammering in his chest. Good.  
  
Carefully, John makes sure that the door to the flat is shut. Then he coughs, steels himself. "Right. Ok." And heads through into Sherlock's room.  
  
By the time John walks in, shutting the bedroom door behind him, Sherlock's already down to just his underpants.  
  
Well then.  
  
John nods at the pile of Sherlock's clothes on the floor. "You don't hang around, do you?"  
  
"Why would I want to hang around?" Sherlock takes one step up onto the bed then walks across the mattress and off the other side to go rummage in his chest of drawers. "Take your clothes off, John."  
  
John bites his lip and inhales, exhales. "Ok." He starts to unbutton his shirt. Sherlock's still in his underpants but they're tight enough that it's easy to make out the line of his arse, the backs of his thighs. Of course, John's seen Sherlock with few clothes on before, but in those cases they were never just about to... Well. Of all the things John thought he'd be doing when he woke up this morning; this was not one of them.  
  
Sherlock emerges from one of the drawers with a bottle of lubricant. He tosses it up and catches it, then frowns at John. "Hurry up. We don't have all day."  
  
John purses his lips. Swallows. His fingers catch in the buttonholes. Funnily enough, he'd always thought that in this situation Sherlock would be more hesitant, maybe, or uncertain. Which just goes to show how much of an idiot John can really be, because of course Sherlock will still be Sherlock, whatever they're doing.  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Come on. Do you need me to help?"  
  
"No. I'm fine." John frees himself of his shirt, finally, and sets to work on his fly. He dares to look Sherlock in the eye. "So what..." Johns voice catches and he has to pause for a moment. "What brought this on, Sherlock? This sudden wish to explore your sexuality? Did something happen?"  
  
"What?" Sherlock frowns at John. "What? No! John, don't be ludicrous." Sherlock steps up onto the bed once more, but this time he sits down, cross-legged in the middle of it. "Why would I want to explore my sexuality? I already know enough about my sexuality." He tosses the bottle of lube up and catches it again. "Lestrade's got a new case for me. Murder." Sherlock grins. "The victim: male, early 40s, died mid-coitus - well, mid-orgasm if the pattern of the stains on the bedsheets are anything to go by. The cause: blunt trauma to the head with no sign of a struggle beforehand, so probably a surprise attack. The police think that the person who was penetrating him from behind did it, but the angle's all wrong. Far more likely that someone arrived from the front and struck him from the side. The question is: would it be possible for the man not to notice the approach of his murderer, even though the weapon was likely coming right into his line of sight?" And Sherlock looks up at John.  
  
John frowns back. "You..."  
  
"I need to check the awareness and cognitive ability of the average person while they're having sex," concludes Sherlock. "I can't do it by myself, obviously."  
  
"Ok." John pauses, holding his trousers up. "Murder investigation." He coughs. "That's not actually what I had in mind when I said I'd be fine with this."  
  
Sherlock sighs theatrically. "John, we don't have to go through all this, do we?" He looks John in the eye. "Need I remind you that a man is lying dead and his murderer could well be running free, all because you don't want to put up with a little..."  
  
"Fine. Ok. Fine." John pushes down his trousers and steps out of them. "I'll help. We'll do it." He gives the bottle of lubricant an apprehensive look. "Just let me know what you want me to..."  
  
"Take your pants off," says Sherlock.  
  
John glances down at his last vestige of modesty. He knows they're going to have to come off eventually, but still. "You're wearing yours," John counters.  
  
"Of course I am," says Sherlock. "I'm not the one who needs to have an orgasm." He tosses the lubricant to one side. "Are you going to take them off or am I going to have to do it for you?"  
  
"No, you don't have to do that." John strips off his pants and suddenly, there he is, completely starkers in Sherlock's room. It's a little cold, to be honest. He sits down at the side of the bed and tries not to feel too awkward. "What do you mean, you're not the one who needs to have an orgasm?"  
  
"Someone needs to be lucid enough to collect the results." Sherlock gets up onto his knees. "So I'd appreciate it if you didn't touch me."  
  
John frowns. "Not touch you? Then why did you take the rest of your clothes off?"  
  
"I don't want to stain them," states Sherlock. He looks at John. "Are you ready? I need to ask you some questions before we start."  
  
"Ok." John's heart pounds in his chest. He swallows. About to have sex with Sherlock Holmes then. Who'd have thought.  
  
Sherlock looks him in the eye. "What's the capital of New Zealand?"  
  
Well, that wasn't expected. "Wellington," replies John, confused.  
  
"Eight times seven," asks Sherlock.  
  
John frowns at him. "Fifty-six."  
  
"Good." Sherlock shifts a little to get comfortable. "Come closer. I can't do anything with you all the way over there."  
  
"Ok." John makes his way over to kneel in the centre of the bed and Sherlock scoots around to face him. Even with his pants on, Sherlock's showing a lot of skin. It's pale, his body all limbs and elbows, and it's _Sherlock_ for God's sake. His expression is serious. John feels decidedly un-sexy.  
  
"Right," starts John. "So if I'm the only one who needs to get off here, then it'll be easiest if you just watch while I, er," he licks his lips, "take care of things."  
  
"God, no." And suddenly Sherlock's moving forwards, crowding into John's personal space. A cold hand is placed on John's knee. "I can hardly trust you to do it right, John. We need to work to set parameters." The other hand finds its way to John's cock, cupping it and pressing down with the flat of the palm.  
  
John takes a deep breath, goosebumps forming on his arms again. He clutches his hands in the bedcovers behind him and looks anywhere but at Sherlock's face as that palm shifts and long fingers curl around his cock.  
  
Right then. John swallows. Sherlock strokes slowly for a moment, then faster. It feels nice enough, yes, but John's still mostly soft and...  
  
Sherlock strokes him some more and lets out a huff of breath.  
  
John follows it with a nervous giggle. "This," he admits, "is weird, Sherlock. Ok. This is really weird."  
  
"It does seem to be more difficult than I'd imagined," agrees Sherlock. He glances at John and they both burst out laughing.  
  
"Sorry," John tries to calm himself. "Sorry, Sherlock, I just. God. Did not think that this is what I'd be spending my day doing." He bites his lip. "Seriously, if anyone could see us now..."  
  
Sherlock smirks at him. "I trust you're not going to put this on your blog, John."  
  
"Jesus." John's laughing again. "The press would have a field day."  
  
Sherlock laughs along with him. After a moment, Sherlock's fingers flex around John's cock and Sherlock glances down. "This isn't working very well."  
  
"No," agrees John.  
  
Sherlock sighs. "It would have been significantly easier if you were attracted to me."  
  
"Not much I can do about that," says John. "Look, we'll make this work, even if it takes all day. I said I'd do it, and I will. I just need to warm up to it, is all."  
  
Sherlock watches him, considering. He strokes John's cock a few more times. "What do you need, John? Foreplay? Touching?" Sherlock's brow quirks. "I could kiss you. Should I kiss you?"  
  
And there's John's heart hammering in his chest again. John swallows and gives a nod. "Maybe. Maybe, yes."  
  
Sherlock sniffs, then leans forwards, tilting his head. His lips part. John can feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek.  
  
"No." John stills Sherlock with a hand to the shoulder before he can get any closer. "No. Actually, this is more weird."  
  
"Wasn't just me then." Sherlock pulls back. His gaze flicks down to John's lap and he huffs a sigh.  
  
"Look," says John. He bats Sherlock's hand away. "I can't..." John gestures at the bottle of lubricant. "Let's try some lube, ok? And if you can sit behind me and stroke me that way; if I don't have you watching me all the time then it might be easier."  
  
"Ok." Sherlock grabs up the bottle of lube and moves around until he's kneeling behind John, his thighs splayed either side of John's hips. "Better?" he asks.  
  
Now, when John looks up, all he can see is the wall. "Better," he agrees.  
  
Sherlock pumps some of the lubricant onto his hands and smooths it over them. John watches out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock's hands and forearms are still masculine, but if this is all John can see, then it might not be too hard to imagine something else.  
  
"Do you mind if I fantasise?" asks John.  
  
"No," replies Sherlock. He leans closer and his fingers curl around John's cock once more, but they slide easily this time. "I want you to do everything you can, John. I need you to have an orgasm for me."  
  
"Ok." John closes his eyes so he can't watch Sherlock's long fingers and tries to focus on the sensations instead. The lubricant makes it far easier, the slick slide enough to make John let out a slow breath. This is good. This could be good.  
  
John can feel Sherlock's chest pressed up against him as Sherlock reaches around, but John ignores that image. It's not Sherlock there but a girl, a pretty girl; maybe that waitress in the Indian restaurant who flirts with him. Maybe. She's pressed up hard behind John and John can feel her breasts pushing against him, nipples pert. Her legs are spread wide around John's hips; she's probably wet back there too.  
  
Shifting his hips a little, John inhales. This is working. He's getting harder, and she's good at what she's doing. Her strokes focus on the base, then run up to the head, smoothing firmly enough for John's thighs to clench before they run back down again. She's had a lot of practice at this; good girl. John's eyes open. He watches those fingers smooth over the head again, confident and sure. This, thinks John absently, is actually practiced enough that it must be the way Sherlock touches himself when he masturbates. And with that the fantasy shatters.  
  
Suddenly, John's back on his flatmate's bed, getting tossed off by his best friend.  
  
John bites his lip.  
  
"Stay with it, John," says Sherlock's voice in his ear. "You're hard. You're doing well."  
  
"Right," says John. He looks down at his cock. Focuses on his arousal. He _is_ hard. Hard enough that Sherlock's fingers are beginning to feel better. He could come, eventually. If they kept going like this, John could come.  
  
"What's the chemical formula for table salt," asks Sherlock.  
  
John tries not to be thrown by the question. He takes a breath. "NaCl."  
  
"Nine squared," asks Sherlock.  
  
"Eighty-one," answers John.  
  
"Good." Sherlock brings up his other hand so he can work John with both of them, one focusing on the base, the other focusing on the head, both slick.  
  
John hums at the increase in sensation. Swallows.  
  
"How are you doing?" asks Sherlock.  
  
John rolls his hips a little as one of Sherlock's hands travels down to squeeze his balls. "Good," says John. "Better." He breathes out. "I think we'll get there."  
  
Sherlock makes a noise of agreement. "I want you to try harder for me, John." Sherlock's hands speed up. "What's your most lurid fantasy? I want you to go there."  
  
"I..." starts John.  
  
"Don't tell me," says Sherlock. "Imagine it. Concentrate on it. Whatever gets you hardest. The one you use when I can hear you masturbating from downstairs."  
  
John's stomach twists in a strange way. "Not actually helping, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Ignore me. Close your eyes again. Do it."  
  
So John does as he's told. He closes his eyes and tries to get back to where he was before, with the girl behind him, breasts at his back, waiting, wet, for him to fuck her. Only she's not alone this time. Now, there's another girl at her side, reaching down into that wetness, sliding her fingers inside and the first girl is bright red, she's enjoying it so much, lips parted, back bowing.  
  
Two girls, but they're not naked anymore. No, they're in their underwear but it's redundant; bras have been pushed up and knickers are so wet that they're soaking, dripping with it. They've been going for hours. Thighs are shining and smears glisten up over hips and stomachs. John can taste it; he's licking at her through the sodden material, coating his tongue. Ah, she gasps, that's disgusting, and she comes as John tugs the fabric aside, worming his tongue up inside her.  
  
The other girl's enjoying it too; she's behind him now, using her wetness to lubricate her hand on his cock, her other hand coming down to circle slickly behind his balls.  
  
John freezes. Sherlock's shifted back slightly and is using two fingers to rub up against John's perineum while he strokes him from the front.  
  
"Sherlock," John has to lick his lips a few times before he can speak, "what are you doing?"  
  
"From the position of the body, it's clear that the victim was receiving prostate stimulation when he died." Sherlock huffs out a breath that John can feel on the back of his neck. "Therefore, _you_ need to receive prostate stimulation for this to be a fair test." The fingers on John's cock flex in a way that makes John swallow. "We can either do it this way or I can stimulate your prostate directly."  
  
John tries to catch his breath. It's a measure of how aroused he's become that he's almost tempted. But anal penetration is not a line he's willing to cross with Sherlock; not today. John licks his lips again and rises on his knees to give better access. "This, ah. This way is fine, Sherlock. We can stick with this."  
  
"Fair enough," says Sherlock, and the fingers on John's perineum rub harder. The hand on John's cock runs up to the head for a series of short, quick strokes.  
  
John shudders at the feel of it. He braces his hands on the bed in front of him.  
  
"Capital city of Russia," asks Sherlock.  
  
John swallows again. "Ah. Moscow, Sherlock." The fingers on John's perineum smooth up over John's balls, making John hiss. His stomach tightens.  
  
"Eight times four," asks Sherlock.  
  
"Hah." John has to wait for the hand on his cock to slow down before he can answer. "Thirty-two."  
  
Those fingers move back down to John's perineum. "You're getting into this, John. Well done."  
  
John smiles and tries not to rock his hips too much. "Well. You know." He takes a breath. "I said I would get there eventually."  
  
Sherlock chuckles and increases the pressure of his fingertips.  
  
John grins down at the bed, breathless. He tries to go back to his fantasy, two girls, wet, writhing, the smell of them in the air, but he finds that he doesn't need to. He's far enough along the way that he's happy with this as it is; his cock hard, very hard, and Sherlock's fingers slick and sure. Even the thought that Sherlock must masturbate like this doesn't faze him. Of course Sherlock does. Why not? This is actually one of the better handjobs that John's received; it's not difficult to imagine that Sherlock likes to come this way too.  
  
Sherlock switches hands, fingers speeding up again. God. John pants. Sherlock presses up closer to get a better angle, breath heavy against John's ear.  
  
And John starts, surprised for a moment. He can feel... He almost doesn't believe it but that certainly seems like what he thinks it is. "Sherlock," says John hesitantly. He licks his lips. "Are you hard?"  
  
Sherlock huffs out a laugh against John's neck. "Well, we _are_ having sex, John."  
  
"Yes." John takes a breath. "But I didn't think you'd..." He stops as the thought sinks in. "Sherlock," John reaches out and runs a trembling hand down the length of Sherlock's thigh, "do you want me to...?"  
  
"No, John." Sherlock's voice is thick. "I have to stay lucid to collect the results, remember?"  
  
"Right," says John. "Yes." He clutches his hand back in the bedcovers again, fingertips tingling with the warmth of Sherlock's skin.  
  
Sherlock breathes out. "How are you doing, John?"  
  
John doesn't need to think hard about it. "I'm close," he hisses. His hips are rocking of their own accord. "I think I'm close."  
  
"Good." The fingers at John's perineum rub faster. "Seven times five."  
  
John swallows. The hand on his cock is moving with long, firm strokes. "Thirty-five."  
  
Sherlock presses closer. "The capital city of Belgium?"  
  
God. John can feel Sherlock's erection pushing against his hip and it's more distracting than it should be. "Brussels." But it's good that Sherlock's into this too. It's good.  
  
Sherlock hums in the back of his throat. The fingers on John's cock begin to flicker over the head with increasing frequency.  
  
"Jesus." John's breath stutters in his throat. He's hot and hard and slick, body winding up, tense, desperate. Not long now. He's not going to last long at all.  
  
"Are you ready?" Sherlock's breath is heavy against John's neck. "You're shaking all over. It can't be much longer." Sherlock's hands speed up to a frenetic pace. "Come for me, John. Come on."  
  
"Oh." John takes a deep breath. "Oh, Jesus." He can feel himself teetering on the edge. "Sherlock..." His hips rock up into Sherlock's touch. "I... ah..." One more flick of fingers over the head of his cock is all it takes, and suddenly John's engulfed in the rush of his orgasm.  
  
"What's the chemical formula for water?" barks Sherlock, but his hands are still stroking, and John's already shooting onto the bedcovers.  
  
"Fuck," gasps John. "Fuck."  
  
"John," Sherlock's voice is urgent, "what's the capital city of Germany? Concentrate. Tell me!"  
  
"Oh, Jesus." John's whole body is shuddering. "Christ. I..."  
  
Sherlock keeps stroking, hands still moving and fuck. Fuck. It's only when, finally, John's stopped ejaculating that Sherlock takes his hands away.  
  
"Oh God." John's arms give way and he collapses down onto the bed. He takes a couple of breaths and swallows shakily. "Berlin."  
  
But Sherlock's already jumped up off the bed and is halfway across the room. John looks over to find him cleaning his hands off with a towel. His face is flushed. "John," Sherlock declares, "that was _appalling_. Those questions were ridiculously simple. A child could have answered them."  
  
John gives the pillow a rueful smile, still a little breathless. "Yeah, well, I was a bit busy at the time."  
  
Sherlock snorts, pacing over the floor. "Then again," he says, "it may have been an anomaly." He stops. "John, what's the length of your refractory period?"  
  
"What?" John's not sure he likes the sound of that question. He sits up, knees still shaky, and gives Sherlock a suspicious look. "Why?"  
  
Sherlock huffs, picking up his watch. "An experiment is never reliable unless it's repeated." He raises his eyebrows at John. "If we're going to have to wait for longer than fifteen minutes, then you may as well go and put the kettle on."


End file.
